This week’s entry was meant to be about…. erm…. hang on, it’ll come to me in a minute…. it was about…. damn it, I nearly had it then…. erm….
The truth is, I can’t think straight at the moment, because it is so frigging hot outside. Well, it is on the day I am writing this week’s entry, but such is the erratic nature of the British weather, you will most likely find yourself looking out of the nearest window, at the relentless rain / lightning / hailstones / snow (delete as applicable – or if applicable, because we could very well be experiencing all of those conditions simultaneously), and wondering what the fuck I am going on about.
Look, cast your mind back to the start of the week. Remember how hot and sunny it was? Yeah, well that was summer, hope you enjoyed it. If you’re upset that the weather is now crap again (as I predict it will be by the time you read this), then blame Glastonbury.
As Brits, we are almost always pissed off with the weather. When it’s cold and rainy outside, we just want some sunshine and warmth, but when that big ball of fire does eventually break through the clouds which cover our little island for most of the year, we get bored after a day, and want it to bugger off again.
There are two reasons for this.
Firstly, we Brits are never happy with our lot in life. Whether it’s our jobs, finances, cars, partners, or, in this case, the weather, we always want what we don’t have. Then, if we do eventually get what we want, we turn our attentions elsewhere, and the endless cycle of mindless coveting continues. We are greedy little shits, and we are never content.
Secondly, Brits are simply not built for this kind of weather, in the same way that some of our European friends (soon to be ex-friends) are. If we adopt the analogy of food at a barbecue – which seems appropriate given the circumstances – then the likes of the Spanish, Portuguese, Italians and Greeks are glorious, meaty burgers. When the sun comes out, and everything gets hot, they look better, they smell better, hell, they probably even taste better. Pair them with an ice-cold beer, and that’s about as good as life gets. They look magnificent.
NB: Not me
In contrast, we’re the salad. We shrivel up, go limp, and generally look pathetic in hot weather. And, frankly, who wants salad at a barbecue? No one, that’s who. Salad is only good for one thing, and that’s to go on top of the burgers occasionally – except none of those lovely continental burgers wants a feeble Brit on top of them, all limp and sweaty.
NB: Also not me. But considerably closer.
My point is, we’re not physically designed to deal well with hot weather. We’re built for queuing, whinging, and drinking tea – and pretty much bugger all else.
Essentially, the range of temperature where we get even remotely close to being content with the weather, is laughably minuscule. It is the weather equivalent of getting the water right in a baby’s bath – a parameter of about 3 degrees – and any variation either side, can be potentially hazardous to our health.
I know there are people out there, who will argue that we should enjoy the nice weather, and make the most of our all-too-fleeting summer while we can, but these people tend to make that argument whilst sat in their garden, or outside a pub, with a nice cold pint of beer in their hand.
These people are not trapped in an office. An office which, to be honest, might as well be used as a tropical greenhouse. An office without any air-conditioning, and with just one small window which, if opened any more than an inch, will cause all loose paper within the room to go flying off in every direction (even though a cursory glance out of said window, will establish that there appears to be no breeze whatsoever outside – not even a gnat’s fart).
These people are not sat there, in a suit and tie, on a faux-leather office chair, with a case of swamp-ass so chronic, that they are currently experiencing the optimum conditions for growing mushrooms in their underpants.
These people do not suffer with hay fever – the most pathetic, yet utterly debilitating, of all the seasonal ailments. They are not sat there with their eyes streaming, so red and sore and itchy, that their work colleagues have been asked to hide all sharp implements, lest they attempt to relieve the incessant itching with a rusty fork. They are not sat there, in their sodding beer garden, sneezing into that delicious ice-cold pint of lager.
These people do not have embarrassing bodies. Not necessarily what society considers an amazing body (because they are, after all, British), but sufficiently toned that they can comfortably strip down to very little, despite being in public, and flaunt what they are so very lucky to have.
They need not worry about any unfortunate sweat stains, whether underneath or nestling on top of the embarrassing mound they call a stomach; on the backs of their damp, clinging shirts; or, worst of all, on their sagging posterior when they rise from a seat. You will never accidentally walk in on them, while they perform lunges in their office, hoping to sufficiently aerate their clothes before meeting another human being.
These people have wonderful, care-free temperaments, largely because they are the sort of person who can be sat in a beer garden on a glorious day. They have no need for angry outbursts, whether in response to irrational / ungrateful / unreasonable clients, or simply because their damn stapler has run out of staples again.
Never will you hear them scream the phrase: ‘Well, why didn’t you tell me you were nearly out of staples, you useless fucking excuse for office equipment?’ They live a perfectly care-free (and stress-free) existence, and will never find their already sour mood exacerbated by the heat, to the point they cannot even tolerate their own children anymore.
These people tan beautifully, sat there in their fucking beer garden, as they sip that delicious ice-cold nectar, and smile at the other beautiful people around them. They require no more than a minute, to delicately (and erotically) apply a small blob of sun cream to the 92% of their attractive bodies currently exposed to the sun. They need not concern themselves with the triviality of adequate protection and coverage, because they will inevitably turn an alluring golden-brown colour, in just a few hours, regardless of what factor sun cream (and how much) they use.
Never will they feel the need to spend an hour and a half, liberally slapping vastly excessive quantities of factor 50 sun cream to every single nook and cranny of their pasty, flabby bodies, until they look like they have been the victim of an explosion in a mayonnaise factory. They will never have to leave the house so plastered in sun cream, that any physical contact with another human being over the course of the next week, will see that person slip away from them, like a wet bar of soap.
Never will these people stand in front of a mirror, after just twenty minutes of exposure to sunshine, wondering why the nose they lathered in sun cream a short while earlier, now resembles the conk of someone with a heavy drinking problem. Never will they stand in a tepid shower, crying because the water hurts so damn badly, and wondering how their feet managed to get burnt when they were wearing socks all day.
These people are everything I am not. I hate these people. May their beer always go flat and warm, and may a fly take a shit in it.
Still, at least I’m not Scottish or Irish. I feel really sorry for those poor bastards right now.
Confessions of a Middle-Raged Dad 